Page 42 of Manhattan Bossholes

I was lying. I totally wanted to look sexy for him.

He came out of the bathroom, and we nearly ran into each other. I sucked in a breath, because his version of pajamas was just navy boxer briefs.

Vincent looked good in everything I’d ever seen him wear, but he was downright devastating when he was nearly naked. My eyes were drawn to his broad shoulders and defined chest, but it was his thighs—thick, muscular—that had me swallowing hard. I couldn’t understand why so many men focused their efforts only on their upper body when there was so much to be said for a couple of muscular thighs.

Vincent cleared his throat, and I realized I was staring. My cheeks burned, and I swore the temperature in the room spiked.

“Cute pajamas,” he said, gesturing to me.

“I bought, I mean, you bought every color of the rainbow, so prepare for a show each night.”

His eyes darkened just a fraction.

“No, no, not that kind of show,” I laughed nervously. “Like, a fashion show, but it’s pajamas.”

“I’ll watch whatever you perform for me,” he said in a low, rumbly voice that made me ticklish all over.

“Ha!” I squeaked out. My laugh came out high-pitched, too eager, and I wanted to slap myself for it.

I ran over to the bed and practically dove beneath the sumptuous sheets, needing the barrier of cool fabric between us before my thoughts completely ran away from me.

Vincent turned out the overhead light, and the room went dark except for the tiny bedside lamp. I felt his side sink as he climbed in.

My breathing went shallow.

Vincent and I were now in bed. Together.

And the room felt suddenly much, much smaller.

“I want to apologize in advance,” I said as I rolled over to face him, jolting when I realized a shirtless Vincent Forde was staring at me. He was backlit by the lamp, so I couldn’t make out his expression. “I’m a restless sleeper. I might accidentally end up in your zone. If it happens, I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize,” he replied. “I move around in my sleep, too.”

The air in the room felt heavy as we sorted through our sleep quirks. How did we end up here, exactly?

“It’s more than that, though. I might unintentionally…spoon you,” I said softly, the words catching in my throat. It was an insane thing to admit…but it was the truth. “I can’t control it.”

“Well, that won’t do at all,” Vincent murmured.

I worried I’d scared him off, and now he was going to go sleep on the couch.

“I like being the big spoon, not the little,” he continued, his eyes locking on mine, dark and unreadable, “so if it’s okay with you, let’s fix the problem before it begins.”

He reached out and gently clasped my wrist, then slid me across the bed until I was just inches away from him.

My breath hitched at the closeness, his heat washing over me.

“Are you okay being the little spoon?” he murmured.

My heart was jumping out of my chest at his nearness.

“I am.”

We held each other’s gaze for a few seconds longer as we grappled with the idea of what we were doing until I shifted onto my side and pressed back into him. Vincent draped his arm over me, and I let out a sigh at how perfect it felt to be nestled against him. The sensation of his body molding against mine was electric.

“Good night, Piper,” he whispered in my ear, the sensation of his breath against my skin sending sparklers up my spine.

I’d thought about this very sensation, hell I’d dreamed about it, yet the reality of it was even better than I’d imagined. The weight of his arm over my waist, his body pressed closed against me—everything felt so right, so perfectly aligned. I was tucked against him like my body had been crafted to fit exactly here.